CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Z arian sat, a statue of disbelief, in the sunlight, Layna’s fragile form cradled delicately in his arms. The world around him felt surreal, reality woven with strands of the unimaginable. The rise and fall of her chest against him was a comforting rhythm, tethering him to the present.

Yet, his mind was steeped in confusion.

He tried to grasp at his flickering memories, piecing them together like fragments of a dream. His body carried an odd weakness, the lingering echo of a life just returned.

He had died, had he not?

The memory was clear and sharp—the cold bite of the blade in his neck, the triumph in his brother’s eyes, the world fading to nothing as his eyes locked onto Layna’s anguished face.

The memory of his own death, a moment suspended between time and eternity, clashed violently with the reality of his renewed breath.

How could it be?

He remembered the pain, the sense of finality as Azhar delivered the fatal blow. He remembered Layna’s harrowing screams, her body still bound by light, her bruised face streaked with tears.

He remembered his failure.

He remembered the blackness, the absence of anything and everything.

But in the next moment, he drew what felt like his first breath anew. He had opened his eyes and gazed upon Layna—yet it was not the Layna he knew. Hovering above him, she was a vision both magnificent and terrifying, her eyes ablaze with white light, smears of blood painting a frightful contrast on her face.

But then, she had smiled at him.

And in that gentle curve of her lips, Zarian saw his Layna shimmer through. She was not completely lost to him, not erased by the power that had transformed her. His Layna was still there, somewhere inside the frightening goddess before him. He remembered the cool relief that washed over him, the slight dimming of his fear.

Zarian’s mind replayed the moment she had leaped from the terrace—it had practically stopped his heart once more. But instead of falling, she ascended into the sky, her form etched against the backdrop of the sun in a magnificent display of power.

How long had she remained suspended there? He strained to recall, but the memory eluded him, blurred at the edges like a dream.

What wonders had she wrought in the sky?

He had watched in silent awe as she returned to the terrace. The white fire in her eyes faded, and she was Layna once again— his Layna.

Clutching her close, he anchored himself in her presence, her face a guiding light in the murky darkness of his thoughts. Her breaths, a soft rhythm against the silence, brought him peace. He was alive and—somehow, against all conceivable odds—he breathed alongside her.

He kept his gaze steady on Layna, trying his best to ignore the charred remains nearby. His mind recoiled from the implications that threatened to overwhelm his already frayed senses.

For now, he focused on their survival and the warmth of Layna in his arms.

Numbness enveloped Zarian, a protective shroud against the reality unraveling around him. Time lost meaning as he sat on the terrace, cradling Layna in his arms, the world reduced to the space they occupied. He sat counting her breaths for hours, or perhaps only moments, until Jamil breached his bubble of isolation, snapping Zarian back to some semblance of awareness.

Zarian’s gaze lifted to meet Jamil’s, instantly wary of the three men behind him. He tightened his hold on Layna as he drew her closer to his chest, prepared to shield her from any threat, real or perceived.

With gentle insistence, Jamil helped him stand, his voice laced with concern as he suggested someone else carry Layna to safety. Zarian didn’t speak but refused to relinquish his hold.

He could not bear to let her out of his arms.

The memory of his failure, of seeing Layna in peril while he could do nothing but die, haunted him. He clutched her close. Her weight in his arms, though a struggle in his weakened state, was one he would carry willingly.

And so, Zarian carried her.

Flanked by Jamil and the other Medjai, he walked through the halls of a palace ravaged by conflict. The corridors were littered with bodies—palace guards who died defending their people, servants caught in the attack, and the Zephyrian invaders who had breached the sanctuary of the palace. Zarian felt a deep, aching gratitude in his chest that Layna, unconscious in his arms, was spared the sight.

Each step toward the infirmary was harder than the last. His body, barely his own, cried for rest, a plea that became harder and harder to ignore.

After what felt like a lifetime, they finally reached the infirmary, and Jamil quickly signaled the healers. Zarian gently laid Layna on an empty bed, her form so light, yet carrying the weight of his entire world.

Then, as if his strength was tethered to her, it waned the moment she left his arms. He sank to the floor, his body surrendering to exhaustion.

Waking with a start, Zarian found himself in an unfamiliar bed. The rough sheets scratched uncomfortably against his skin, and the fresh, earthy scent of herbs bombarded his senses. Blinking rapidly against the bright light, his eyes focused on the gray ceiling.

A sense of ownership slowly returned to him; his limbs felt like his own again, his mind clear of the hazy fog that had shrouded it.

Bolting upright, he scanned his surroundings—a frantic search that calmed only upon seeing Layna asleep in the bed next to his, her chest rising and falling gently. A curtain partially separated their beds from the rest of the infirmary.

His knees buckled as he leaped out of bed.

Steadying himself, he stood beside her. He noted the healers’ handiwork. The remnants of blood and battle were cleansed from her face, her swollen lip now a healing scab, and the bruises that painted her skin in hues of pain were now fading to the purplish blue of recovery.

Exhaustion shadowed her features, making her seem more fragile than he had ever seen her. He reached out, hesitating for a moment before allowing his fingertips to brush against her warm cheek, grounding himself in the reality that she was alive.

He quickly surveyed himself, realizing he was still wearing sleep trousers, his upper body bare. In disbelief, he ran his hands over his abdomen and his neck. Despite the uncomfortable tightness of his skin, there wasn’t even a single scar to mark what had transpired.

Zarian turned back to Layna just as Jamil appeared at the infirmary doorway. Relief washed over his friend’s face.

“You’re awake,” Jamil noted, a smile breaking through his concern as he approached with a pitcher of water.

“Has she awoken yet?” Zarian asked urgently, his voice rough as if it had been dragged over broken glass. His gaze flickered to Layna’s still form before returning to Jamil.

Jamil’s smile faltered as he poured Zarian a glass of water. “No, not yet,” he replied gently. Zarian drank deeply, the water soothing his parched throat, but his thoughts remained fixed on Layna.

“How long?” Zarian asked between gulps.

“A little over a day,” Jamil responded, nodding toward a pile of clothes on the chair between the beds. “You can change in there.” He pointed to a nearby door. Zarian glanced at the clothes, then back at Layna. Jamil stepped closer. “It’s alright. I’ll watch over her.” Nodding, Zarian headed to get dressed.

Returning in under three minutes, he took a seat beside Jamil. “What happened?” His eyes never strayed long from Layna’s slumbering form.

Jamil took a deep breath. “Your father sent us—about fifty Medjai—to the palace. He said you’d need our help. He didn’t give details, just said it was urgent.”

“When we arrived, the palace was eerily quiet. Practically deserted. We split up immediately, searching for any signs of the enemy or the royal family.”

“We found about twenty Zephyrians scattered throughout. They had already killed the few guards and servants who were awake. We overpowered them easily.” His eyes dropped to his lap, shoulders slumping slightly. “But we were too late. They had already murdered the king.”

Pain darkened Zarian’s features as he glanced at Layna. His heart ached at the thought of the painful loss she would face upon waking.

She would awaken, he told himself.

She had to.

With a silent apology in his eyes, Jamil continued, “We were able to rescue the queen. She was terrified, of course, but unharmed. After that, we searched for you and Layna. I found you both on the terrace. Sarnab, Kharteen, and Dhil were with me.”

Zarian’s expression grew pensive, his mind racing. “I think the water was spiked with something. That’s why I felt so disoriented, why I woke so late.”

The two Medjai shared a knowing look. “ Neendakhi ,” they said simultaneously. Zarian sighed deeply, cradling his head in his hands.

“That makes sense,” Jamil remarked. “We found a palace guard in the gardens, stabbed to death. He must have drugged the water and opened the gates for the Zephyrians. It seems they disposed of him as soon as he served his purpose. A fitting end for a traitor.” Jamil leaned closer to Zarian. “Now, your turn. What happened?”

A young healer entered, arms full of fresh supplies. Seeing Zarian awake, he hurried over and greeted the two men. He began checking Zarian’s vitals, his hands moving with practiced motions as he conducted a swift but thorough examination.

Zarian, for his part, endured the scrutiny with resigned patience. Once satisfied, the healer gave Zarian a nod of approval and left them to their privacy.

The prince inhaled deeply. “I awoke much later than expected. I noticed a horse tied up right in the middle of the gardens. That was the first sign. That, along with my disorientation and headache, I just knew something was wrong. I rushed to Layna’s room, but I was too late.” His voice cracked as he continued, “She had been captured. I found her restrained on the terrace…by Zaarif.”

Jamil’s mouth fell open. “ Zaarif ? But how?”

“Azhar,” Zarian corrected, a hard edge in his voice. “The new king of Zephyria, that was Zaarif.” He paused, letting Jamil absorb this revelation. “And he had the orb. He used it to bind Layna to the pillar.” Zarian’s eyes clouded over, the weight of painful memories pulling him back.

“We fought,” he said simply, looking down at his lap. “Then, at the eclipse’s peak, the prophecy unfolded. The Daughter of the Moon was unleashed.” He hesitated. “She—she dealt with Azhar. She did what I couldn’t. She used her light against him. The bones on the terrace are his.” Jamil winced and placed a hand on Zarian’s shoulder.

Zarian continued, omitting his own death and miraculous revival, his mind still grappling with that reality. “She levitated into the sky, using her power fiercely, but it was all a haze to me.” His eyes met Jamil’s. “When she returned to the terrace, she was Layna again, but she collapsed. The power was too much.”

Concern washed over his features as he looked at Layna. “I could do nothing but hold her,” he whispered.

“You did everything you could,” Jamil reassured, squeezing Zarian’s shoulder. “All that matters is that you’re both safe.” He paused, thinking. “I can’t believe that Azhar was Zaarif. All this time. Do you think your father knew?”

“He must have known,” Zarian snapped, voice brimming with resentment. “He concealed Zaarif’s whereabouts for years. He knew, and still he chose silence. Leaving me in the dark at such a pivotal moment…it’s unfathomable.”

“I am truly sorry, brother.” Jamil paused and looked at him closely, observing, not for the first time, the absence of any visible wounds. “You mentioned that you and Zaarif fought?”

“Yes,” Zarian replied flatly, his gaze dropping to the floor, a shadow of pain flickering across his face.

Jamil watched his friend closely for several heartbeats but didn’t press further. Instead, he rose to his feet. “The queen will be coming soon to see Layna. She’s shown incredible strength through all of this. Managing a war-torn kingdom while grieving her husband.”

His gaze flickered between Zarian and Layna. “I must return to the Oasis. I’ll inform your father of what has happened. And…I’ll bring Soraya back. She should be here.” Zarian, lost in thought, didn’t respond. “Will you be alright?” Jamil pressed, a deep crease forming between his brows.

Zarian nodded. “Thank you, Jamil. For everything.”

Days passed, but Layna remained deeply asleep. Zarian, steadfast and unwavering, barely left her bedside, his vigil a constant through the days and nights that followed. The world outside continued its relentless march, but time stood still for him, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity.

He watched her, hope and despair battling within him, clinging to the slightest movement, a twitch of her hand or a flutter beneath her eyelids, as signs she might return to him.

Soraya arrived at the palace in time for her father’s funeral. It was a modest affair. Historically, royal funerals were grand public events, a celebration of the monarch’s legacy, but a private event felt more appropriate given the recent tragedies.

With heavy hearts, Hadiyah and Soraya arranged the somber ceremony. Soraya, speaking both for herself and for Layna, shared a heartfelt tribute to their father. Both mother and daughter lit the funeral pyre, standing together in tears until the flames died.

During the funeral, Zarian stayed by Layna’s side in the infirmary, tightly gripping her hand, silently urging her to open her eyes. His heart ached knowing she would deeply regret missing her beloved father’s farewell.

After the funeral, the queen and Lord Ebrahim, with Burhani’s assistance, assumed the mantle of leadership, working tirelessly to begin healing and rebuilding Alzahra.

Word soon arrived at the palace, a whisper of victory from the northeast: Baysaht’s forces defeated the second Zephyrian faction.

Yet, an eerie silence hung over the fate of the southeastern troops. No tales of battles won or lost reached their ears—it was as if the very sands had conspired to keep their fate a secret.

Rumors fluttered like uneasy birds through the palace and markets. Wandering souls spoke of a fantastical event—the desert itself rising in fury, sands parted by the hand of a vengeful goddess, swallowing the southeastern army whole.

These storytellers, with wide eyes and trembling voices, were met with disbelief. Laughter and dismissal followed their accounts, their stories too wild to be taken as anything but the ramblings of those touched by the desert’s hot sun.

In the quiet infirmary, a week passed—a week since the eclipse turned the world on its head. Layna lay still, a silent witness to the passage of time. Her ordeal had demanded a steep toll, leaving her trapped in the murky depths of a coma.

On the seventh day, amidst hushed whispers and the soft creaking of the infirmary doors, a subtle change stirred the air.

Layna’s eyes fluttered open.

Tinga noticed first, her voice filled with joy and disbelief. “She’s awake! Come, healer, quickly!” Her urgency brought the room to life, stirring the healers into swift action.

Zarian gently helped Layna sit up as she struggled to shake off her week-long sleep. In that moment, everyone in the room—family and palace staff alike—bowed deeply in unison.

The new queen of Alzahra had finally awoken.

The significance of their bows crashed forcefully into Layna’s slowly returning consciousness. “No, no, no,” she whispered, her voice rough with disuse, as her eyes welled with tears.

She denied the reality they confirmed—the reality of her father’s death.

Soraya and Zarian held her tightly, Tinga gently stroking her hair, her loved ones offering whispered words of comfort. As she surrendered to her grief, the weight of her new reality settled upon her.

Queen Layna had awakened to a world forever changed.